


Fuath

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Cousin Incest, Ficlet, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4987684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To topple Fëanor’s line, Melkor tempts Maedhros into Fingon’s arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuath

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ненависть (Fuath)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10481367) by [rio_abajo_rio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rio_abajo_rio/pseuds/rio_abajo_rio)



> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He takes a small house in Valmar, needing only a single, stone room with rich fabrics drawn over the windows: something unobtrusive and anonymous under the guise of being helpful. In the center of the central room, on a rug draped over the hard ground and amidst a smattering of pillows, Melkor strolls idly around the elf before him. The elf is tense, drawn tight, but Melkor soothes him: “He will come.”

Findekáno nearly cringes at Melkor’s deep voice, crumbling as Melkor draws up to his back, so close that Findekáno’s dark hair is crushed against his stomach. Melkor’s spent much time whispering into Findekáno’s ear, and now he brings his palms to either side of Findekáno’s round shoulders, purring, “But you should be more tempting for him.”

Findekáno lets his blue robes be dragged slowly down his shoulders, showing more and more skin, tantalizing and nearly scandalous, the way Melkor best likes things. As Melkor runs his coarse thumbs along Findekáno’s smooth skin, Findekáno shivers and murmurs weakly, “You said that he wanted me...”

“I did,” Melkor chuckles. He meant it, too—the irony of all this is that, for the first time, his grand scheme has required no lie. He finds Elven flesh somewhat alluring, at least to debauch, and he’ll enjoy this, but he has bigger plans. Findekáno is a pretty specimen, not unlike the one he waits for, but Melkor needs them for other things. Melkor will, perhaps, seduce another plaything of his own—one from the house of Finwë, even one of Fëanáro’s own—when next he grows bored. He resists sinking his sharp teeth into Findekáno’s shoulder, instead running his hands all over Findekáno’s back.

He asks, “Do you not wish to entice him?” Findekáno glances back. “He already wants you, yes, as you so dearly desire him, but that has never been enough before. You must convince him, sweet Findekáno, that you are worth the scandal, that your body can offer pleasures worth fighting for.” With another step, Melkor presses himself entirely along Findekáno’s spine, forcing out another hitch of Findekáno’s breath. His ripe scent fills Melkor’s nostrils, so sickeningly _innocent_ , ready to be _poisoned_ , but the door opens before he can do anymore.

Findekáno is instantly out of his embrace. Nelyafinwë slips through, shutting the door securely behind him, only to turn and have his cousin right before him. He’s worn more—an outer robe draped over a formal one, with thick fabric and a sash. His copper hair is gathered elegantly over his shoulders, some parts drawn back in a decorative braid behind his head and a ruby-encrusted gold circlet around the front—he clearly dressed up for this. Yet he looks down at Findekáno with surprise, as though he expected this invitation to be false. The surprise quickly melts into _yearning_ , hot but pained, behind his sharp eyes. 

“Nelyo,” Findekáno greets, barely a whisper: equal shock but pleasure. “I feared you would not come.”

Nelyafinwë’s bow lips curve into a frown, and he glances over to Melkor, wary but now unsure. His father, despite Melkor’s best efforts, has little love for Melkor, and clearly, Nelyafinwë’s adopted that. But Melkor has given him the one thing he’s always wanted more than anything, and it’s worth far more than Fëanáro could ever counter with. That alone is worth the squalor of this hovel and all the bitter hours spent creeping along in shadows. 

When Nelyafinwë looks back to Findekáno, his face is conflicted, and he asks, strangely tentative for an elf of Finwë’s line, “Is it true, then? What he told me?”

Findekáno’s grown lighter from Nelyafinwë’s arrival and returns, almost coy, “What did he tell you?”

“That you...” Nelyafinwë pauses, still torn and worried, but he slowly admits, “that you would want me.”

“Is it true that you would want me?”

Nelyafinwë’s mouth closes, but the rest of him says it all. A spark of triumph ricochets through Melkor’s borrowed form. This may be his greatest move yet against the Eldar; it could sunder all the Noldor, and bring Finwë, and most of all, Fëanáro, such _anguish_. And all Melkor had to do was see the obvious and fan the flames already there. Nelyafinwë doesn’t even have to answer. Findekáno closes the space between them, lifts up on his toes, slips his fingers into Nelyafinwë’s hair and brings their mouths together. 

Nelyafinwë instantly kisses back. His hesitation seems to evaporate, and one of his arms loops tightly around Findekáno’s waist, the other coming to cradle the back of Findekáno’s head. They kiss fast, harried, bottled from too long spent pining for one another, and now it’s all surfaced at once. It’s a messy, sloppy process that Melkor at first didn’t understand, but now he can feel the desire to _devour them both_. Their tongues slip into one another’s mouths, fighting for dominance, muffled noises trapped between, until they finally part to breathe and look at one another. 

Melkor bids, “Come away from the door.”

Nelyafinwë looks up at him and asks, cagey, “Why do you remain here?” Melkor had expected that question and merely smiles.

It’s an effort not to _smirk._ He answers simply, “I wish to see the joys of my labour come to fruition.” Nelyafinwë opens his mouth again, but Melkor smoothly continues, “There is no need to worry; I will not tell your father where you are. And I will not tell anyone that the heir of the great Finwë is shamefully in love with his own cousin, and a male.” He doesn’t speak it like a threat, but Nelyafinwë winces all the same. Melkor could _destroy them_.

With no way to protest, Nelyafinwë turns his attention back to the elf in his arms. His eyes sweep over Findekáno first, taking everything in, like learning it anew, and then he murmurs, quiet but _strong_ , “It was indeed difficult to find a way out without my father knowing, and I cannot be away long, but it was worth it. You are so beautiful, Káno. It is true that I have wanted you for a long, long time. You are brave, yet kind, and loyal, and when I am around you, I... I...” He trails off, like the sheer force of his love has left him lost for words, and it strikes Melkor as vaguely _pathetic._

But Melkor keeps that to himself and drawls, “You wear too much, Nelyafinwë. Your cousin bares himself for you, and you come with all your body hidden from him.” Findekáno looks aside, cheeks read, and Nelyafinwë eyes the supple curves of Findekáno’s shoulders, before Melkor goes on, “You may never be able to sneak out again, especially once Fëanáro learns that you were missing. This might be your only chance to be together, away from the oppressive eyes of your kin. Surely you mean to use it well.”

That gets to Nelyafinwë, and he tugs at his outer robes, slipping them off to pool along the floor, leaving the shape of his body more obvious but the rest of him veiled. Findekáno’s hands lift to Nelyafinwë’s chest, smoothing over the heavy fabric. Findekáno mutters disparagingly, “He is right. We cannot do this in our own homes, and it will always be difficult for us to meet, especially now, with our family so coldly estranged...”

They won’t feel that long, Melkor hopes. He plans to feed this fire until the two of them are wanton and reckless, thoroughly ruined and helpless for one another. He wants them to cry at being apart, to feel incomplete and _empty_ alone, to _need_ to be by each other’s sides. He wants them to be foolish and kiss in their fathers’ homes, flaunt their sin until somehow sees. Melkor _wants_ them caught and for it to make their fathers livid, but this first time, he wants to watch. Above all, he wants to see Fëanáro’s precious son defiled. 

So he purrs, silken and tempting, “Come lie down, Nelyafinwë. This is a place of openness, of love, and we have pillows for you. Your sweet cousin has spoken of nothing else: he wants you so, so very badly. Will you force him to suffer in wait? If you love him, you will come and display that properly, give yourself to him.” Nelyafinwë’s pupils grow wide at the words, lashes lowering. It’s easy to have an effect on him, because he looks at Findekáno with such defenseless want. His guard is shattered, his weakness shining. He looks as though he would do _anything_ to make this dream come true.

Findekáno guides him. Findekáno has had Melkor’s words in his ears all up to this, and he takes Nelyafinwë’s hand, drawing him back. Nelyafinwë follows like a child. When they’ve reached the smattering of pillows, Findekáno’s fingers trail over the ties of Nelyafinwë’s robes. Nelyafinwë bobs his head slightly: permission, and Findekáno deftly unfastens them before drawing loose the sash at Findekáno’s waist. When Findekáno parts Nelyafinwë’s robes down the middle, it’s made clear that Nelyafinwë did hope for this, for he wears nothing beneath. As Findekáno pushes the robes from Nelyafinwë’s lithe body, he murmurs in awe, “You are so _handsome_ , Nelyo.”

In truth, they’re both handsome. The peak of this form. It’ll be a shame to release them after this, to allow them to play with these ripe bodies away from Melkor’s watchful eye. But they are, in the end, only tools for him. Findekáno runs greedy hands over Nelyafinwë’s sides, moaning softly in delight, and Nelyafinwë grabs him for another kiss, before Findekáno pushes Nelyafinwë down. 

Nelyafinwë allows himself to be cowed to the floor, like Melkor wished, naked and vulnerable. This is a sight Fëanáro would keep from him, and Melkor avidly memorizes it. He wants to know every curve, every crease, every flush of red and light freckle, so he can repeat it with malice to Fëanáro’s horrified face. He wants Nelyafinwë soiled and thoroughly dirtied. He would take Nelyafinwë for his own, mar the pliant prince beyond recognition, but somehow, this is so much _filthier_. Nelyafinwë’s own cousin descends on him with unbridled lust, kisses him hard, until his skull is dug back in a pillow and his thin wrists are pinned down to the floor. 

“I love you,” Findekáno breathes, like he can never say it enough. His kisses scatter Nelyafinwë’s face, his body draped over Nelyafinwë with Nelyafinwë’s creamy legs spread wide around him. “My heart yearns for you when you are gone, and every song I utter is meant for your ears—no jewel I collect can match the sight of you. You are so beautiful, so fierce and powerful, yet so good to me. I would face the Valar themselves for you...” He doesn’t know the irony of his words. He kisses Nelyafinwë between each breath, and Nelyafinwë keens for his touch. Melkor’s goal is already sealed. 

He kneels down beside them anyway, savouring the sight and all the details. As intimate as this moment, he murmurs, “You are new to this, but I will not leave you stranded. You must prepare him, Findekáno, if you are to take him without hurt.” As much as he’d love to hear Nelyafinwë _scream_ , he needs this to happen again and again. Findekáno nods, clearly too aroused to hold onto his suspicion. Melkor guides, “Put your fingers in his mouth, and have him wet them as much as he can.”

They both obey, such good boys for him, as the Eldar should’ve been from the beginning. Findekáno holds his fingers against Nelyafinwë’s plush lips, and Nelyafinwë opens for him, sucking in each digit with a blissful expression on his face and his eyes trained on Findekáno; neither of them can seem to look away. Well Nelyafinwë hollows out his cheeks in an effort to feel Findekáno’s fingers, Findekáno lightly draws them in and out, fucking his cousin’s mouth in wonder. 

“Open his hole now,” Melkor purrs, while laying his hand on Nelyafinwë’s knee. Nelyafinwë doesn’t protest but does shudder. Melkor smoothes down it, drinking in the softness and the innocence, and explains, “He will be tight, untaken, but your bodies are of light and for the pleasures of each other, and he will open for you. You must fill him with your fingers and stretch him as wide as you can, until you think you will be able to sheath yourself inside him.” Both elves hang on to his every word. Melkor pulls Nelyafinwë’s leg back, displaying him all the more prominently. Findekáno eyes the hardened cock rising off Nelyafinwë’s stomach and the tight, pink balls beneath, before falling to the puckered hole nestled between his cheeks. 

Even as Findekáno removes his fingers from Nelyafinwë’s eager mouth, Melkor doesn’t let go of Nelyafinwë’s leg. He wants to take hold of Nelyafinwë’s wrists and hold them both down, make him as helpless as possible, but then Findekáno would resist him, and this would be poisoned for them, and they might not dare risk it again. Only they can trap each other. Findekáno rubs his slicked fingers over Nelyafinwë’s furrowed entrance, until one finger pops inside, and he shivers and Nelyafinwë gasps. 

“Slow,” Melkor coos, and Findekáno listens. He slides deeper gradually, bit by bit, careful, until Melkor hisses, “Another.” Findekáno inserts a second finger, which Nelyafinwë’s hole lewdly sucks inside, and Findekáno scissors him for a time. Then Melkor urges, “Another,” and finally, “He is ready for you, Findekáno. Fill him as you have always wanted.”

Nelyafinwë arches up, head tossed back and hair a mess about the pillows. Findekáno braces over him on trembling arms after taking himself from his robes and pressing against Nelyafinwë’s opened hole. Melkor watches in sick fascination as Findekáno’s cock pushes inside, and Findekáno seems to buckle, crying out, Nelyafinwë losing all his air.

Findekáno keeps sliding inside until he’s completely buried, the coarse, dark hair of his crotch firm against Nelyafinwë’s tight sac. He stays there when he’s finished, hovering over his lover, before lowering enough for them to press their foreheads together. Their eyes close, but the rest of their senses must be working: inhaling one another’s raw scent, feeling the brush of skin, though Findekáno is still mostly dressed, his robes only loose and parted. The sounds they make are pathetically divine. They’re such _small_ creatures, so greatly undone by such a simple act, and Melkor has the privilege to witness their ruin. Then Nelyafinwë licks his lips and begs, “ _Káno._ ”

Findekáno nods like he understands. He draws slowly out, only so that his tip is still buried inside, and then he shoves forward, and Nelyafinwë arches again and whines from the back of his throat. Findekáno is already panting and does it again, then again, until he’s worked himself into a rhythm of his own. He fucks his cousin in firm, swift strokes, all the way inside and nearly free again. Nelyafinwë reaches for his shoulders, wraps around him, and lifts back to meet each thrust. It’s noisy and permeates the air with musk, and it makes Melkor _ravenous_. The more they debase themselves for him, the more he likes the look of them. They’re beautiful apart but better together. He _wants them_ for himself, but they’re already drenched in sin, and he’ll take their brothers to replicate this when the time is right and his power’s restored. He likes it best when they mark one another, nipping too hastily with teeth and clawing at each other’s skin. They leave pink trails and wet circles. They fuck desperately and with abandon. 

“I wish you were mine,” Findekáno moans, as he slides into Nelyafinwë’s waiting body, again and again. “I wish I could take you like this any time I wished, and that I could hold you in my arms anywhere we went. I wish...” A particularly deep thrust robs him of his words, and he breaks off in a heady whine. 

“Káno,” Nelyafinwë repeats, while Findekáno bites hard into his shoulder. He gasps, whimpers, moans and pleas, “Come to me again, please, or I will find a way to you—I cannot bare to be apart from you; I would surrender myself to you fully...”

“You would have me in return,” Findekáno promises.

They meet in the middle to kiss, and their hands cup each other’s faces. Their hips are still moving. Tireless, they fuck long and hard, kissing here and licking there, _tasting_ and nosing and singing their sweet noises. They’re like two starved animals in Melkor’s cage. They can’t seem to stop touching one another. If he separated them now, they would likely claw their way back through any barrier he could devise. They’re fortunate that he only wishes to bat them about like the toys they are, pets for him. He lets them fuck and cry and cling to one another like the fragile playthings he’s made them into. 

They go and go, heedless of time, until their rocking is so great that they’ve drenched themselves in sweat and are red beneath their skin. Finally, Findekáno screams into Nelyafinwë’s mouth, his hips slamming forward, and Nelyafinwë follows shortly after. His cock bursts a jet of white liquid, followed quickly by another, that splatters bother their stomachs. Findekáno must be filling Nelyafinwë up, because he keeps grinding it in, and he looks dizzy and fucked senseless. They still kiss frantically.

Then they begin to slow. They nuzzle into each other’s faces more than bring their lips together, and they’re both panting hard, and Findekáno’s hips still. He doesn’t pull out. Nelyafinwë murmurs, “Káno, _Káno_ ,” and curls so tightly around Findekáno that Melkor thinks the smaller elf might break. Melkor has his wish: Fëanáro’s eldest is sullied and utterly broken. Even when he’s cleaned himself and left, he’ll carry this wound in his heart. 

Melkor watches them for a while, but they do nothing else. They seem to speak without words, and simply cuddle and touch and caress. Findekáno eventually pulls out, but they remain so close it hardly matters. Melkor returns to his feet.

Then he leaves without a word and wonders when he should invite Fëanáro to the show.


End file.
